The Truth of Change
by God's Demonic Messenger
Summary: Burdened by her experiences and haunted by her actions, can Lara Croft pick up her old life? Can she rethread her old friendships? Or has her ordeal on Yamatai changed her irrevocably? She'll find the answer staring down the shaft of an arrow. NOT A CRACK FIC or SLASH FIC. R/R.


It was a warm day in the middle of May, blessedly free of rainfall. The large group of people gathered for the annual regional archery competition milled about the large grass park. Some carried their bows to the next area. Others watched as the dozens of girls and women competed for a spot on the podium and a chance for the cash prize.

An announcer hooked up to the park's PA system called out contestants for their next heat, and those that had already completed theirs found shelter from the sun under one of the many tents erected and the handful of pavilions jutting off the few real buildings in the area.

A long row of hay targets lay along the length of the park, red painted circles surrounding a bull's-eye on each one. A white chalk line lay some distance away from them, distinguishing the firing line for the archers.

Half a dozen women stood at some point on that line, firing into their own target, hoping for a chance at the medal.

* * *

"You know, you have a hell of a lot of nerve," the woman standing in front of the girl said. The two of them stood under one of the pavilions. The girl had her back to the wall, leaning lightly against it with her arms crossed. A table with cups and a cooler stood off to the side.

Behind the woman was a half dozen other participants in the tournament, each of them with a look of righteous indignation on their faces.

"The rest of us worked hard to make it into this tournament; we got in the right way. You just paid your way in. You're not even that good."

She didn't respond. She barely even looked at the woman, constantly shifting her gaze around the arrayed women. This seemed to only frustrate the woman further. "Come on; go ahead. Try and defend yourself. Try and justify _bypassing _all the _real _rules of the tournament. Try and justify entering through a _loop hole_."

"I have no need to explain myself," she replied. "And you wouldn't be entitled to an explanation even if I did."

"Is that so?" the woman demanded. "I don't deserve an explanation for why you subverted all of my hard work in qualifying for this tournament? None of us deserve an explanation for why you thought it was alright to buy your way into a competition?

"Or do you just think you're so far above us with your _windfall_ money that you get to defy common decency?"

"You're poking for information you have neither the intellect nor the constitution to comprehend," she replied calmly. "And my motivations are frankly not a whit your business."

A sharp clap resounded around the pavilion. The woman's hand hung in the air across her chest.

The girl rotated her head back and faced the woman. No anger, no defiance, only boredom scrawled on her face. A slap to the cheek was apparently no more noteworthy than the color of the sky to her.

An old man came limping forward, "Dorace you better get out of here before I eject you from the tournament for striking the competition!" he screamed.

"You wouldn't recognize a rabid dog if it bit ye in the arse," he said cryptically.

"Sir, I didn't—," the woman stammered.

"I said get out! Did I stutter?!" the old man demanded. The gathered group immediately dispersed, with the woman named Dorace leading the way.

The old man turned to the girl.

"Which war did you serve in?" the old man asked immediately.

"Neither," she replied tersely.

"Street rat?"

"Valedictorian."

"'Bobby?'"

"Archeologist."

"Where'd you learn to shoot the bow?"

"An island."

"Musta been some island."

"One of a kind."

"You really Lara Croft, the girl what's been in the news lately? Shipwrecked on that island they just discovered?"

"I discovered it."

"Only a handful made if off that thing. What happened to the rest of 'em?"

"The locals."

"I see."

"Oh?"

"Yep. You gotta look in yer eye I ain't seen in years. Not since my father passed from throat cancer. He served in WWII; was part of the group that stormed Normandy. Made it all the way to Germany and ended up liberating one of those death camps.

"He always looked at the world like the world was lyin' to him. Like all the parties and drinkin' and laughin' was just one big con.

"And you got some of the same look. I can tell, you seen things most people wouldn't believe, and I bet you never mention 'em. Big secrets that isolate you from everyone else."

"Pretty accurate analysis," she conceded.

"Bet you know the best way to take down everyone in the area. Bet you have all the possible weapons scoped out and catalogued in that Valedictorian brain of yours. Bet you know all the escape routes and vantage points in the area."

"Why's that?" she asked.

"Because your eyes got another look in 'em. I see them darting around, looking at all the biggest guys and all the girls with their bows and nocked arrows. I see 'em linger on the bobbies with their truncheons. You're barely looking at me; I ain't a threat to someone like you. I'm old and my joints don't work too well anymore. You could probably strangle me to death without letting me make a peep.

"But you keep me in your peripheral all the same."

She smirked, her eyes never ceasing their scan of the area. "Another astute observation."

"A girl that survives an island full of locals that wiped out 'er whole crew 'cept a handful of others, one that knows how to shoot a bow like you do without putting in the hours these other girls did, one that came back with a look like _that, _ain't just a pretty face. In fact, I'd say the pretty face is your most deceptive feature.

"I guarantee not a single one of these girls could survive a car breakdown in the countryside without a cell phone. You don't belong around them."

"I noticed," she stated dryly. "You're a very perceptive man," she continued, briefly looking him in the eye before returning her attention to the rest of the field.

"I better be," he replied. "I was the chief homicide detective here for ten years and my father founded this tournament.

"I'm so used to looking at girls and guys that know how to shoot but haven't the foggiest what it is they're holding when they're doing it that a girl like you stands out here," he replied.

"So it wasn't hard to notice you. Only the really naïve could miss your stare and only the ignorant could miss the way you hold your bow. By now you've no doubt noticed the looks the Bobbies are giving you."

"I have."

"Then you know they see the same stare I see. But to them it's just a source of unease. The pretty face throws 'em off. They don't have the years of experience I do."

"It's a useful feature," she replied.

A lull in the conversation spread as the announcer for the tournament introduced the next round of competitors attempting to secure their position in the finals. The girl had already secured her place at the very bottom of the finalists. She was a longshot to win.

"A girl that could survive an island like that must be a crack shot with a bow," The man eventually began. "But so far you've only been barely competitive. So what's the problem?"

"I've been wondering that myself," the girl replied candidly. "I have a theory but the rules of the tournament forbid me from testing it."

"Now that's an easily solved problem," the man replied. "I manage this tournament and I have a burning desire to see what you're really capable of. Call it a morbid curiosity.

"Besides, much as these other girls wanna posture, this tournament is a low rung. Most of these girls won't make it to the nationals. So what did you want to do?"

"I want to put a picture up on the target to help me focus," she said.

"Should be doable. I'll make sure to smooth it over with the rules lawyers," the man said. "Did you already have the picture?"

"No, I'd need to print it out. Where's the nearest office?"

"This way," the man said. He left the cover of the pavilion and led the way across the grass to a group of buildings. The other people didn't miss the newcomer walking off with the tournament's director. The girl ignored the resulting murmurs.

Once they reached the air conditioned office building, the girl quickly accessed her personal server on one of the many computers and printed out the image she needed. A still frame of a rough-shaven, mean looking man with white paint splotches on his face and a hood over his head stared back at her.

"Evil looking bugger. Who is he?" the old man asked.

"The leader of the locals," she responded.

"He would be."

They left the building together. The girl held her paper tightly in her hands while the old man went off to talk to one of the officials.

"Next up, Lara Croft on target 6!" the announcer declared over the loud speaker after a few minutes. She looked around for the old man and, finding him, saw him nod at her.

She walked to her lane and ignored the loud murmurings of confusion as she stepped over the dividing line onto the grass leading to the hay target.

She walked the whole distance in silence while the rest of the field watched. Carefully, so as to avoid tearing the image, she used four arrows to affix the piece of paper to the target. She made sure the point directly between the mean looking man's eyes lay right over the center of the bull's-eye.

She walked back silently.

"This is highly unusual," the color commentator said as he watched the girl cross back over the divider. "But Ms. Croft appears to have the Director's blessing to place a piece of paper onto the target. What's it of Karen?"

His colleague held a pair of small binoculars up to her eyes, "It appears to be a man Jim. A rather mean looking one at that. What do you suppose the significance of it is for her?"

"I have no idea. Perhaps an old training ritual she picked up," Jim replied. "At any rate, this girl seems to be creating controversy left and right. I could have sworn tampering with the target was against the rules."

"Indeed," Karen replied. The field hushed as the girl pulled out her worn and beaten up competition bow. She stroked its scars lightly before setting it aside.

Next she pulled out an ornate quiver, complete with ancient looking oriental carvings wrought into what looked like solid gold affixed to a main body of carefully dyed burgundy leather. Silently she put a dozen of the arrows she'd been provided at the start of the tournament into it and slung it across her back.

She stood there, bow in her left hand and the quiver of arrows on her back, and stared at the image she'd affixed to the target.

She stared back at the man's eyes, their stare as cold and vicious as a wild animal's, at the paint speckled across his features, its random pattern doing its best to hide the filth, and at his snarling mouth, its harsh curve seeming to telegraph a hateful desire for violence.

Even after the buzzer sounded, alerting her that she had permission to fire, she simply stood.

Another murmur went through the crowd, this time one of impatience as they waited for her to act. It went on for close to a minute as the girl ignored it.

But it quieted as she finally took a deep breath, clenched her fist, and shifted her posture into a firing stance.

Then she flew into action. Her right hand rose to her quiver almost faster than the crowd could follow, deftly grabbed an arrow and nocked it, pulled back hard on the string, and released it.

The arrow flew fast and hard, nailing the bridge of the image's nose, right between the eyes.

Before the crowd could even applaud at the shot, another arrow flew through the air. The girl grabbed arrow after arrow, quickly drawing and releasing them one after the other without pause.

Each arrow pierced the man's face; each one punctured the area between his eyes. A small bundle of arrows crowded the space, several of the shafts splintered by subsequent arrows.

The girl stopped, an arrow drawn back to her cheek. The compound bow in her hands allowed her to stare down the shaft of the arrow without strain. If they could, her eyes would have reduced the image to ashes in a blazing inferno. They burned with the hatred of a thousand victims and the fury of a thousand angels.

Had anyone been able to see them, even the most naïve civilian would have backed away at the sight.

She closed her eyes, hiding their dark depths behind her eyelids.

"I have never in all my years seen anything like that!" Jim exclaimed. "One more shot like those and she'll have the bronze medal, but she could go all the way!"

"What's she waiting for?" Karen asked.

The girl stood silently, her eye's closed, breathing deeply. No one knew what she was thinking, but the old man had an idea.

Dark secrets no one would believe. Secrets that could change an ordinary girl into something else; a deadly survivor with a stare that promised violence at the first sign of danger.

The girl opened her eyes. The fury was gone, the hatred extinguished. The violence was once again submerged in the cold pools of her dark eyes, visible just beneath the surface.

Calmly, confidently, she pointed her bow at the dirt and released her arrow. Slowly she nocked another, and it followed the first into the dirt. Two arrows later and her turn was over.

"It appears Ms. Croft has forfeit," Jim declared, his voice confused. "That was the most awe inspiring display of archery I've ever witnessed. Ms. Croft could have easily taken home the gold medal AND the cash prize. I'm at a loss to why she'd forfeit."

"You and me both Jim," Karen replied.

The girl slowly packed away her quiver, removing the remaining arrows and setting them aside. She carefully placed her bow in the carrying case she'd had made for it, right beside the quiver.

She ignored the stares and comments made by the surrounding crowd and zipped up the case. Grabbing it by the handle, she stood and finally looked around.

The woman named Dorace stood at the front of the crowd, right where she needed to go. Dorace had a confused look on her face. The girl walked over and stepped in close.

Dorace tried to back away, evidently finally seeing the danger lurking behind the girl's eyes, but she was boxed in by the crowd. The girl stepped close enough to touch her.

"You and I are too different for me to explain," the girl said quietly. "And you don't have a hope of understanding me.

"You wield a bow as nothing more than a slightly dangerous piece of sporting equipment. You don't really know what it's for or what it's capable of. You just know it's _fun_ to shoot with it. An innocent hobby with an innocent tool."

"Go ahead and have your contest," she said, an edge of ice creeping into her voice. "I know _exactly_ what my bow is capable of and it has no place beside yours."

Dorace looked utterly stricken. She tried to reply, tried to apologize. She could feel the girl's stare now, and she felt the danger it promised.

But the girl had said her piece, and she walked calmly into the crowd, leaving Dorace alone with her fear.

The crowd parted for her, several of the men and women present who realized some of the significance of the image made way for her as she walked, pulling aside the ones that didn't.

The Bobbies eyed her more closely as she walked across the field toward the parking lot. They could see past the pretty face now and what they saw frightened them. Criminals didn't stare back like this girl did. They were full of defiance and bravado and almost invariably lacked the bite to back up their bark.

But this girl looked back with cold eyes and a confidence that unnerved them. She had no bark; she needed no bark.

They kept their hands on their truncheons as she passed, seeking comfort from the weapon but knowing in their hearts the bludgeons would do them no good against her.

Her stare didn't waver, it didn't slide away like everyone else's. It sized you up, knew your weaknesses, connected with your eyes and held them. They'd been taught about people like her in the Academy. People that fell outside traditional criminal archetypes. Soldiers, spies, and sociopaths. The most dangerous breeds.

The old man met up with her before she reached the lot.

"I was right. You're something different. Very different," he said.

"Apparently I am," the girl replied.

"I just have one more question," the man said. "Why'd you join this tournament? You knew you didn't belong here, so why'd you come?"

The girl was quiet a moment, as if thinking about her answer. Or whether _to _answer. Finally she said, "My friend put me up to it. One of the survivors.

"None of them know what I had to do to save them or what I saw while doing it. None of them know what happened to me any more than you do.

"As far as my friend could tell, her best friend had simply become distant," she continued. "The things she saw paled in comparison to what I saw. The things she experienced were a shadow of what I endured. So I couldn't tell her. She's a fellow survivor of the same island and I can't even tell _her_ what happened."

"She wanted her friend back and hoped this tournament would rekindle some of my old self. I'd always been competitive and she hoped an honest contest might wash away the distance.

"She doesn't really realize what I've done with a bow."

"Why'd you go along with it?" the old man replied.

"I think I wanted to know if I _could _go back to who I was. I wanted to know whether there was any going back," she replied after a moment.

"And now I know."

"I imagine you do," the old man said.

They stood together in silence for a moment. It was clear the old man had one more thing to say, and the girl seemed to be waiting for him to say it.

"You know," the old man finally said. "Your stare isn't too much different than that man's."

"I know," she replied.

"Then you probably know what I'm gonna say next," he said.

"That I better stay on the right side of the law," she stated.

"That's right. Any reason I should expect you to?" he asked.

The girl was silent for a while.

"He and I are both creatures forged in the same crucible," she finally began, "But he was honed to survive at the expense of those around him. I was strengthened to survive so that I could protect the people I cared about."

She was silent for a moment, no doubt remembering something painful. "You don't have to worry about me," she eventually said.

"I suppose I probably don't," he said. "You be careful out there, alright Ms. Croft?"

"I plan to be Mr. Jacobson," she replied.


End file.
